The Bones Beneath The Red Oak Tree
by JGRhodes
Summary: Jim Moriarty has one living relative - a twin - and after his death she is left to pick up the pieces of a life she never knew he lead. Along the way she meets John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Sebastian Moran. M for Mature.
1. The Life and Lies of Jim Moriarty

It's amazing how something as simple as answering a phone call can alter someone's life. That was how Evie would look at it, once the madness had calmed a bit and she had time to lock herself in her hotel room for some peace and quiet.

That's how her life would be divided, you see. Before The Call and After The Call.

Before the call she was an Administrative Assistant for a Fortune 500 Company, poised to move up and take the management position she'd been wanting since she first started working there. She had a nice apartment in the city, a Great Dane named Fezzik, and even though her divorce had been finalized only last month, she felt sexy as hell.

After the call…well. She didn't know who she was anymore.

She answered the office phone, like she did a thousand times a day, with a cheery "Nickolas Gardner's office. How may I help you?"

The voice on the other end was British and very, very tired. "Hello. I'm looking for an Evelyn Leftwitch."

Fuck. If someone found her taking personal calls at work she'll never get promoted. "Who's calling?" she asks instead, pressing the phone between her shoulder and her ear.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard."

Ok. That was new. "How may I help you, Detective Inspector?"

"Ms. Leftwitch, do you know a man named Richard Brook?"

She pauses, thinking. "No. Should I?"

"Well the funny thing is that he left your listed as his next of kin. Name, number, address, the whole works."

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry…I've never heard of him. I don't even know anyone in England. I can't imagine why he'd have me listed as a next of kin."

"Right. Well," the man pauses for a moment as if he were thinking of the next course of action. "Ms. Leftwitch…do you know a man named James Moriarty?"

The contents of her pen cup crash to the ground. "What's happened? Is he alright? Is he hurt?" She scrambles on the floor for the pens.

"How do you know him?"

"He's my brother. My twin. Is he alright?" Her head whips around, eyes on the lookout for anyone who might take advantage of the fact that she was losing her fucking shit.

He lets out a heavy breath. "How soon can you get to London?"

"I don't know! Tomorrow, maybe, if I can get a flight and my boss is in a good mood. Where's Jim? What's he even doing in England? He's supposed to be in California!"

"Ms. Leftwitch…as you sure you don't know anyone named Richard Brook?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I've never heard of him in my life! Why? What's he got to do with Jim?"

"If what you're telling me is true then Richard Brook doesn't exist. He never existed. He's…something your brother made up. And if you're brother made him up then was responsible for the deaths of a lot of people."

She feels faint. Sick. This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.

"Was?"

"I'm very sorry, Ms. Leftwitch. But if this man is who you say he is, then your brother is dead."

* * *

She hates England.

It's supposed to be rainy. Dreary. Overcast. It's not supposed to be sunny and happy and warm. The people are supposed to be stuffy and standoff-ish. They're not supposed to smile at her and nod as she makes her way into the morgue at St. Bartholomew's, her stomach clenching in fear.

The morgue attendant warns her that he committed suicide by eating a bullet but it doesn't prepare her for what she sees. She tries to look at the body properly – "We need you to identify him." – but she can barely see through the tears. She's going to hurl. She knows it.

Someone guides her to a chair and presses a cup of lukewarm coffee into her hands. She sits there, half way around the world, and slowly comes to the realization that she's well and truly alone.

A man, grey haired and wearing a suit, walks in and sits down across from her. "Ms. Leftwitch?"

She raises her head. "Yes?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he extends a hand. "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances."

She nods.

"I know this is probably a bad time, but I need you to come down to the Yard. There are a lot of questions that need answering."

"Right. Right. Of course. Whatever you need."

They stand together and he guides her through the halls, one hand in the crook of her elbow, until they reach his car. London whizzes by in a blur of faces and buildings. If she had one wish in the world it would be to see it burnt to ashes.

The officers at New Scotland Yard all stare at her. She doesn't know why, but she knows it can't be because of anything good. They put her in another room, with another chair, and another cup of coffee.

Detective Inspector Lestrade opens the door and two other people, a man and a woman, enter.

"This is Agent Donovan and Agent Anderson. They'll be listening in on our interview. Standard procedure. Right. Let's get started," he places a note pad on the table and takes out a pen. "Please state your full name for the record."

"Evelyn Marie Leftwitch."

"Marital status?" his pen flies across the paper.

"Divorced."

He looks up. "Maiden name?"

"Moriarty," she says, and she sees Agents Donovan and Anderson exchange a look.

"Date of birth?"

"October 21, 1975."

"And your relationship to James Moriarty also known as Richard Brook?"

She reaches out for her coffee, hands shaking, "Jim. We call him Jim. Called him Jim. He is – was – my twin."

"Do you have any guilty knowledge about any illegal activities James Moriarty may have been involved in?"

Her head snaps up quickly. "What? No! Why?"

"You don't seriously believe this?" Anderson throws out an arm in her general direction. "This is nothing more than Sherlock Holmes's last hurrah!"

"_Who?_"

"I'm sorry, Agent Anderson was just leaving."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but I'm with Anderson on this. You don't really believe this, do you?"

"I don't know, Donovan, that's why we're all here! Now out, both of you."

"Wait, no," Evie throws out a hand. "Who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?"

"She's good. She's very good," Anderson says. "Too good, if you get my meaning."

"You know you are really starting to piss me off," Evie says. "I don't do well when people piss me off."

"Anderson, Donovan, out. Go find out what Dimmock's dug up."

She watches them go, fists clenched, and for the first time since she'd gotten that fateful phone call she feels something besides sadness and numbness. She's _angry_. "Alright. Explain. Because I'm not following. I don't understand any of this. My brother committed suicide. He hurt no one but himself."

Lestrade sighs and places a file in front of her. "I wish that were true, but the deeper we dig, the deeper the rabbit hole goes," he watches her open the file and flip through the pages. "Your brother hurt a lot of people, killed a lot of people, and I believe he pushed a friend of mine to jump off the top of St. Bart's."

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah."

"My brother wasn't a killer. I mean, _this_," she gestures to the file, "this doesn't make sense. He'd never…oh. _Oh_." A look of sudden realization crosses her face. Cradling her head in her hands she lets out a sob. "Oh, God."

Lestrade's eyes grow bright and feverish. "What? What?"

She looks at him, heart in her stomach, and says "When we were little our parents divorced. Mom got remarried and we moved into a small white house he owned. He…he wasn't a good man, Detective Inspector. For years he…well. I didn't sleep alone at night. When we were sixteen Jim found out. I thought he would go mad with rage but…he didn't do anything. That summer my step-dad disappeared. We thought he'd skipped town. I was so happy…and the roses beneath the red oak tree bloomed so beautifully that year."

Talking a deep breath, Lestrade reaches out and lays his hand on top of hers. "Let's move on, shall we?"

"Yes. Thank you."

* * *

The interview had taken too much out of her, so much that she didn't think she had anything left to give, but as tired as she is she still goes to Jim's apartment. It had been rented under the name Richard Brook and, according to the good Inspector, had already been tossed for evidence.

But they didn't know Jim like she did.

She walks through the apartment, shoes crunching over broken glass, surveying the destruction that had been left in the wake of Jim's death. On the floor in the living room is a mass production print of a vase full of flowers. The glass is cracked and the frame is broken, but she recognizes it immediately.

In her head, she hears Jim's voice and feels the ghost touch of his fingers on her face. _"My Steel Magnolia."_

She smiles at the memory and picks up the print carefully. She removes the backing. Hidden there is an envelope with her name written in Jim's lovely, slanted script.

She pulls it out, turns around to walk to the kitchen, and finds herself staring down the barrel of a gun.


	2. The Tales of John Watson

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" she scrambles back. "Don't shoot me! I'm sorry! I didn't know anyone was here!"

Idiot, idiot, idiot! She should have known someone would be here! She searches his face, looking for some kind of recognition, something Jim would have told her. He would have told her, right? That was the bond of twins. You share everything.

_Well…apparently not_, says a tiny voice in her head. _Or he would have told you he killed people._

The man, short with blond hair and lovely blue eyes, has a hard look trained on her. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

He's angry and he has a gun. Not a good combination. She sidesteps some broken glass, trying to distance herself further from him. _Ok, ok. Think. Strategy. Call him down. _"I'm sorry! They didn't tell me anyone was still here!"

"I said _who are you_?"

"I'm Evelyn! Evie!"

"And that means what to me?" he adjusts his grip on the gun.

"He didn't tell you about me?" There's a gnawing sensation in her chest. _Oh, Jim. Just how much did you hide from the people who care about you? _

"Why would he tell me about you?"

"Well you're…I mean. Aren't you - ? Weren't you two, you know, together?"

The man cracks, drops his gun to the floor, and nearly falls over laughing.

Evie is, to put it bluntly, confused as fuck.

"Oh," the man wipes tears from his eyes. "Oh, God. I forgot what that felt like."

_Urge to kill rising._ "So if you're not Jim's boyfriend then who are you? And what are you doing here?" she's sick of this. She's sick of this country and these people and the rain and everything else. She's not in the mood to be laughed at.

"I asked you first," he picks up the gun and tucks it into the waistband of his trousers.

"I'm Jim's sister. Evie."

The man gives her a strange look. "But…you're American."

"So was Jim."

"Right. Of course he was," he swipes a hand over his face. "Only that country could produce someone that deranged."

She crumples the letter in her hand. "Listen here, jackass. I don't know who you are and at this point, I don't care. My brother is dead. _Dead_. I'll never see him again. So don't you dare talk about him that way or so help me God _**I WILL END YOU**_." She screams the last bit, her face contorting with sorrow and rage until she thinks it might split in half.

The man closes his eyes and bows his head. A moment passes and he nods in understanding. "I know what that's like," he says. "Someone you love dying."

No, no, no. She didn't want to hear this. She didn't want to feel connection to this man. She wanted to hate him. She wanted someone to blame, someone to hurt. Someone. Anyone. "Who?"

"He was my friend. My best friend. Best man I ever knew."

All of a sudden it's as if the stars align. Everything snaps into place. "Oh," she says. "Oh. Right. Of course. Sherlock Holmes."

His blue eyes harden again. "How do you know that name? Did _he_ tell you?"

She shakes her head. "Detective Inspector Lestrade told me. Or he tried to. I'm still a little fuzzy on a lot of the details. I just don't _understand_. I know Jim better than anyone. Or I thought I did. I – I came here to try and find answers."

"Did you? Find answers, I mean?"

"I may have. I don't know yet." She turns the envelope over in her hands and tries to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Come on then," he says. "Let's go somewhere less…_broken _to look for our answers." He looks around the room at the destruction and cringes.

She scoffs at him. "That's it?"

"Sorry?"

"We just met, _you pointed a gun at me_, and now you want me to go traipsing around a city I don't know with you?"

"Pretty much. Yeah. Problem?"

"Uh, _yeah_," she says. "I don't know a thing about you. I don't know where we're going. I don't even know your name. And, oh yeah, _you pulled a gun on me!_"

"I'm the man with answers. I might not have all of them, but I have some of them. I can tell you a lot about your brother's stint as a criminal mastermind and a bit more about his role as Richard Brook, his suicide, and how he killed my best friend. But if you don't want to know any of this then I suggest you get on a plane and go back to where you came from, because no one else is going to help you," he turns and heads for the door. "There's an Italian place called Angelo's just of Northumberland Street. Meet me there if you're interested. Ask for John Watson."

_Well. Alright then._

* * *

The hostess leads her to a table by the window where John is tucking in to a plate of fettuccini alfredo. When she sits down across from him he glances up at her and sets his fork down. "Got curious?" he asks.

"Something like that." She doesn't trust this man, not as far as she can throw him, but he's all she's got at the moment. She orders a cappuccino and takes the letter out of her pocket, smoothing it out on the table.

"Any idea what it says?" John asks.

"Not a clue," she slides a finger under the flap and pries it open. "But there's no time like the present, I guess."

She unfolds the letter carefully, but a scattering of dried violet petals fly into the air and float gently to the ground. She ignores them in favor of Jim's well measured script on the heavy stationary in front of her. She takes in the first few sentences and stops reading. She doesn't need to. She knows the words by heart. Passing the letter to John she leans back and watches his read.

Darkling I listen; and, _f_or many a t_i_me

I have bee_n_ half in love with easeful _D_eath,

Call'd him _s_oft nam_e_s in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet _b_re_a_th;

Now more than ever _s_eems i_t_ r_i_ch to die,

To ce_a_se upo_n_ the _m_idnight with n_o_ pain,

While thou a_r_t pouring forth thy soul _a_broad

In such a_n_ ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -

To thy high requiem become a sod.

"What the hell is this?" he says.

"Keats. Ode to a Nightingale," her voice is calm and measured.

"What's the point of it, though? It has to mean something, doesn't it?"

She shrugs. "It was our favorite poem. We could quote it backward when we were younger. I don't know. Maybe he was feeling sentimental?"

"Doubt it. People like him and Sher – people like him don't do sentiment."

"You'd be surprised," she stirs her cappuccino idly and brings it to her mouth. "So when did you first meet Jim?"

"About sixty seconds before he strapped me into a vest covered in semtex."

She chokes, the burning liquid shooting up her nose and out her mouth. "I'm sorry. Back up. Start at the beginning."

"It's a long story," he says softly.

"I have time."

"Right. Well, it started when I ran into an old friend of mine. Mike Stamford."

* * *

She under the cheap hotel room sheets some six hours later, mulling John Watson's stories over in her head. How could Jim have done all this? How could he have become this…monster? She buried her face in her pillow and tried not to cry.

There's a knock on her door. "Housekeeping!"

She rolls over and looks at the clock on the bedside table.

3:03 AM.

There's no way in hell housekeeping was going around at three in the morning. "Uh, come back later! Thanks!"

The knocking persists. "Housekeeping! Open up!"

"No thank you!"

The knocking gets louder, harder, and the door rattles on its hinges. Jumping up she grabs the phone and calls the front desk.

A cheery voice on the other end answers. "Front Desk! How may I help you?"

"Yes! This is room 314! There's someone trying to get in! Send help!" She says as she scrambles over the bed, pulling the phone cord, and tries to unlock the window.

"One moment," the woman says.

For a moment Evie thinks the line has gone dead but then a smooth, rich voice floats from the speaker into her ear. "Do open the door, Ms. Leftwitch. I can assure you no harm will come to you."

"Who is this? How do you know my name?"

"The door, Ms. Leftwitch."

"Fuck you! I wouldn't open that door for Jesus Christ right now!"

"As you wish."

The door handle is giggling now. She stares at it, horrified, and the lock slowly turns. "Oh, God," she whispers.

_Clink!_


	3. The Pride and Power of Mycroft Holmes

She's ushered into a black car, kicking and screaming. She bloodies one of her assailants noses and sinks her teeth into another's hand along the way. _If I'm going down I'm taking one of these bastards with me_, she thinks.

She is yanked from the car a half hour later and deposited, rather unceremoniously, in a chair before a man wearing a very fine suit. He arches an eyebrow as she lashes out and kicks on of her attackers in the groin. The injured man growls at her, but falls in line with his comrades like an obedient soldier.

"Come now, Ms. Leftwitch," says the man in the suit. "There's no need for violence."

"Says the kidnapper," she hisses.

"Yes, well, the ride would have been much more pleasant for you if you had only opened the door as I requested," he swings his umbrella a bit and smiles at her.

"Sorry. I don't bring strange men back to my hotel room. You'd have to buy me dinner first."

He throws his head back and laughs. "Very clever. Your brother was clever too. Pity. It didn't do him much good in the end."

She lurches out of her chair and makes to grab him, but the lackey she'd kicked in the balls pulls a knife on her and shoves her back down.

She looks at the knife and smirks at him. "Oh, honey. Only three inches?" _Bluster, bluster, bluster._

"You'll feel me."

"That's enough," the man in the suit says. "Back in line. Now. May I see the letter your brother left you?"

"What letter?"

He tilts his head and smiles a condescending smile at her. "Don't make me remove it from your person by force. It would be so…ungentlemanly."

"Oh. Ungentlemanly. Right. Of course," she says. "_Eat me_."

He steps forward, hooking his umbrella on his wrist, and dips two fingers inside the neckline of her nightshirt. Hazel eyes meet blue, each challenging, each daring the other: Do your worst. His fingers dip lower, inside the cup of her bra, and they feel warm and alive against her sensitive skin; a far cry from the posh, cold exterior he presented.

The corner of his mouth twitches before his fingers close around the paper hidden next to her breast. It is removed swiftly.

He steps back and Evie lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She was quickly becoming aware of herself again. Mouth parted, cheeks flushed. She bet her pupils were blown too_. Fucking hell, Evie. Do not get a lady boner for the man who kidnapped you! It is way too early for Stockholm Syndrome!_

She watches him unfold the paper and scan it quickly. "And have you been in contact with Mr. Moran yet, Ms. Leftwitch?"

"Who?"

"Have you followed your brothers instructions and contacted Mr. Moran?"

"What the hell are you talking about? My brother left me a passage from our favorite poem. That's it."

He reaches inside his coat pocket, extracts an expensive looking fountain pen, and begins marking the paper.

"Hey!" she snaps. "That's my personal property."

He scoffs at her and continues marking the letter. A moment later he returns it to her. He's circled some of the letters, and made them darker, so that they stand out against the rest.

"Are you seeing it now?" he asks.

She reads over it carefully.

_Darkling I listen; and, **f**or many a t**i**me_

_I have bee**n** half in love with easeful **D**eath,_

_Call'd him **s**oft nam**e**s in many a mused rhyme,_

_To take into the air my quiet **b**re**a**th;_

_Now more than ever **s**eems i**t** r**i**ch to die,_

_To ce**a**se upo**n** the **m**idnight with n**o** pain,_

_While thou a**r**t pouring forth thy soul **a**broad_

_In such a**n** ecstasy!_

_Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -_

_To thy high requiem become a sod._

_**Find Sebastian Moran.**_

"Who is he?" she asks.

"An acquaintance of your brothers. One we've been searching for for quite some time," the tip of his umbrella touches the ground and he rests on it. "Have you contacted him?"

She rolls her eyes. "If I had contacted him I wouldn't be asking you who he was, now would I?"

He rakes her with a scathing look. "You would do well to tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything!" she shouts. "I hate this place! I wish Jim had never come here!"

"So do many others."

She flinches. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to stay in London."

Her head is spinning. "I'm sorry. What?"

"I would be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money for you to stay in the greater London area for, shall we say, six months to a year?"

"No. No, no, no, no, no. I have a life. I have work! I have responsibilities I can't just walk away from!"

"Yes. Your ex-husband and your middle-management position are surely waiting with baited breath for your imminent return."

Well. He certainly didn't pull any punches, did he?

And he was right. There had always been one constant in her life, one person she always knew would greet her with open arms, and be there to comfort her. No matter what happened, no matter how many time she called him sobbing over her shit head husband or complained about being passed over at work, Jim was always there for her.

Her twin. Her shadow.

They came in a matching set: Master Mind and Shit-Stirrer. Jim and Evie. Evie and Jim.

Evie and [Redacted].

"No."

"I can make this very easy for you or I can make it very difficult. Choose wisely."

"No."

"As you wish."

* * *

She tries to leave England for the first time a few days later.

Her credit card is rejected.

She gets a new one. That one is rejected as well.

On her third try she gets all the way to Security and is escorted into a tiny room behind the security line. A man enters the room, impeccably dressed, and sits down across from her and places a package between them.

"Your passport has been blocked by the British Government until further notice," he says.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I don't kid, Ms. Leftwitch," he pushes the envelope towards her. "I have been instructed to inform you that your brother's former residence has been cleaned and ownership transferred to you, as per his last wishes."

"I don't want it! I JUST WANT TO GO HOME!"

"I regret that is not a possibility at the present time."

"You can't do this! I'm an American Citizen!"

"You're on a terrorist alert list. We can do as we please," he reaches in his pocket and produces a business card which he places on top of the package. "You are to call this number if you see or hear anything you think is relevant."

"Relevant to what?"

"My business is keeping you from leaving England. The rest is not my business."

"Are you honestly telling me I've been renditioned by the British Government?"

"If that's the way you wish to see it," he rises from the table. "Good day, Ms. Leftwitch."

The door snaps closed behind him.

"Son of a fucking BITCH!" She slams her fist against the cold metal table. The business card jumps in the air and lands face down in front of her. Picking it up, she turns it over in her hands, and runs her fingers over the embossing lightly.

_Financial Action Task Force_

_ HM Treasury_

_ Mycroft Holmes_

_ International Liaison Officer_

_ One Guard Horse Road, London_

_SW1A 2HQ United Kingdom_

She rips it clean in half and storms out of the airport.

* * *

A/N: 007 fans may recognize the contents of Mycroft's business card as those of Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale.


End file.
